


Shoot and Run

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Snapshot Stalkers [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Darcy Lewis's Taser, Gen, Photography AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Jane's newest gallery opens in Berlin, Darcy has pushed the events concerning the National Gallery in London out of her mind.  She's got an extended internship with plenty of college credits to compensate for the loss of class time and a newfound friendship with her boss.  Her life's pretty good, and Darcy thinks it can only get better.</p><p>She's certainly not expecting one James Bond to come crashing back into her existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boom

Jane’s newest gallery showing was a huge success.

Darcy roamed the several enormous rooms of carefully framed and hung prints on opening night.  Jane had all but begged her to come.  She’d used all of the usual arguments—she needed moral support, she wanted someone to be there who she could cry on when everyone hated her work, she needed a _friend_.  It was that last one that had finally won Darcy over.

Ever since Darcy had dragged Selvig and Jane back to their apartment in London after the day Darcy took the Best Picture Ever, Darcy and Jane had grown much closer.  Jane, while drunk, gave a sprawling, incoherent speech about how wonderful Darcy was, with several asides about strange photography techniques that Darcy later could not find described anywhere.  They’d gone from an employer/employee relationship to friends.  Jane regularly borrowed from Darcy’s wardrobe and vice versa.  When renting rooms in hotels abroad, Darcy and Jane regularly shared a space.  They argued over what movies to watch on Netflix, Darcy hoarded all of the blankets, and Jane insisted that they both take up astronomy to deepen their understanding of space—so they could take better pictures of it, of course.

Jane, too, had negotiated with Culver and the Political Science department to extend Darcy’s summer-long internship into a yearlong job.  Darcy would earn a year’s worth of credits so that she remained on track to graduate, and in return, the internship was considered a “study abroad” program where Darcy worked directly for Jane.

“Are you sure?” Darcy had asked.  The money for the internship was coming straight out of Jane’s pocket, and it certainly wasn’t nothing.  “I love working with you, and I want to keep doing it, but you’re pulling a lot of strings, and—”

“Absolutely,” Jane said.  “I need you.  You’ve got a good eye.  So long as you want to stick around, I’ll have a place for you.”

Darcy had smiled and joked, “Even after I graduate?”

Distracted, Jane had said, “Of course.”

Now, on Jane’s opening night at the Matthias Beckh gallery in Berlin, Darcy walked the rooms not as an intern or even as moral support but as a bona fide friend.  Despite her discomfort, Darcy had to smile to herself.  She liked Jane, and she was glad that the fickle hand of fate or whatever guided random chance had put her in Jane’s path.

And, not to be a downer or anything, but Darcy _was_ uncomfortable.  Jane had informed her that one did not wear slouchy sweaters or jeans to a gallery opening, at least not the kind Jane had in mind.  Instead, Jane had taken Darcy on a whirlwind shopping spree that had ended in the purchase of two dresses: a red A-line dress for Jane, and a dark green sleeveless dress for Darcy.  Darcy had chosen it as the lesser of two evils; the other Jane had picked out had been a rather shocking shade of violet.  Feathers and sequins were involved.  Darcy had shuddered to look at it and in retrospect suspected that it was chosen specifically so that Darcy would shy away from its ostentatiousness in favor of the other.

Darcy rather liked her dress, though it was much too tight across her chest.  She had to resist the urge to pull at it in public.  She was already getting stares just walking around.  When she caught someone’s eye, she smiled and moved on and hoped they didn’t see just how uncomfortable and out of place she really felt amongst all of these obscenely rich people.

That was the other thing: everywhere Darcy looked, there was _money_.  The people there that night were there to socialize with other important people, to be seen in public socializing with other important people, and to buy expensive prints.  Jane had tacked enormous price tags onto her prints, and though it wasn’t unwarranted—Darcy had seen the love and work that went into many of them, and she didn’t begrudge Jane one thin dime—Darcy herself felt a little sick to see these people throwing around that kind of money on art.

Still, money meant good booze, and if nothing else, Darcy was very much enjoying the champagne that was regularly making its way through the gallery.  She’d had two flutes of the stuff, Jane’s ideas about sobriety be damned, and she was feeling very good about herself.  She had her purse with her taser if anything really terrible happened, and besides that, Selvig was floating around somewhere.  If she got any unwanted attention, all she had to do was find Selvig and whoever was bothering her was bound to flee.

Confident in herself, if uneasy with her surroundings, Darcy nodded to the two officers by the front doors and stepped outside to take a deep breath of night air.  The Matthias Beckh gallery stood on Museumsinsel and overlooked the Lustgarten.  Darcy could see a fountain bubbling quietly not far from the doors.  The city was dark, but Darcy could see no stars.  Around the time Darcy began to consider going back inside, she heard tires screeching, followed by gunfire.

 _Eardrum splitting_ gunfire.

In the next few moments, one thing was particularly important: _Darcy was intern to an almost-famous photographer_.  She’d spent months, nearly a year, hunting for perfect shots.  She’d stood in front of oncoming traffic.  She had half-submersed herself in fast-running water.  On one memorable occasion, her tripod had caught fire, and she still managed to get the shot.

In short, Darcy’s first instinct was to run _toward_ the gunfire rather than away from it.

As it turned out, Darcy didn’t have to run far.  Two cars came careening down the B5.  The first tried to swing itself around and flipped, and the second nearly smashed into construction work on the far side of the road.  The driver of the flipped car miraculously recovered first and promptly made a beeline for the Lustgarten.  The driver of the second vehicle was not far behind and made to chase.

As both of them ran almost directly at Darcy, she realized first and foremost that these were not average individuals and certainly not safe, and second that they were both of them armed.  She learned this second fact when the man who’d rolled his vehicle tried to shoot at her, only to miss by several inches.

Darcy made a quiet, surprised sound and ducked, though she was unsure how that would help her.  Behind her, people were pouring out of the gallery only to realize that they, too, were running towards rather than away from the danger.  The officers were trying to herd people away, but everything was happening very fast.  No one seemed to see Darcy.

The men were still rapidly approaching.  The one in the lead was firing at the one behind him, but as soon as civilians got in the line of fire, the second man had stopped shooting.  Darcy heard another gunshot—the foremost runner was going to be on top of her in a few seconds—and, angry and more than a little scared, she reached into her purse.

Two seconds later, Darcy sprang from the ground and knocked into the first man.  He hit the ground as Darcy whipped out her taser and shocked him _hard_.  The second guy was hot on his heels, and Darcy made to shock him next, except—

“ _You?_ ” Darcy cried around the time James Bond crashed into her, bodily forcing her away from the guy she’d tasered.  Bond covered her when the explosion hit and stayed until the immediate rubble had fallen.

Bond stood while Darcy’s head was still spinning and said, “Detonation triggered by taser,” he said.  “There are a lot of civilians.  I need an exit.”

“Jesus,” Darcy muttered.  “ _Jesus_.”

“Not quite,” Bond said, winking.  “You’re lucky I recognized you.  Civilians who jump into the middle of combat aren’t usually civilians.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t taser you.”

Bond looked at the small smoking crater in the middle of the Lustgarten.  “We’d have been luckier if you hadn’t tasered anyone.  Are you hurt?”

“Scratched,” Darcy said.  She stood up and wobbled a little.  Her dress was dirty and one of her knees was bleeding, but it was the sudden rush of adrenaline that left her feeling cold and scared.  “What the _hell_?”

Bond shook his head.  “Come on, then,” he said.  “Is your friend here?”

“Darcy!”  Jane answered Bond’s question for him.  She was running across the Lustgarten and in her red dress and heels she looked absolutely ridiculous.  “Oh my god, Darcy, are you all right?”

“Ask him,” Darcy said.

Jane did a double-take on Bond.  “Not you again,” she said.

Someone was talking to Bond—over an earpiece, Darcy understood in a vague sense.  Bond was taking inventory of the officers rapidly swarming the scene and realized in a half-second that, as the last man standing, he was going to be blamed for ostensibly trying to blow some very rich people to smithereens when the only thing he’d done was chase a guy with a bomb— _what the hell_ —and keep Darcy from being blown up in the process.

“I’ve got an idea.  Pick a name,” Darcy said quickly.

“Don’t even think about it.  _Q, get me out,_ ” Bond said, seemingly to the air.

Darcy dug her fingernails into Bond’s wrist.  Officers were pointing at them now, and a very burly man was approaching fast.  “Pick. A. Name.”

“James,” Bond said finally.  “Stick to the truth.”

Darcy took a deep breath, then rubbed her eyes with her dirt-smeared hands.  The effect was immediate, and she began to cry.

“James,” she sobbed.  “I was so scared, _James_ —”

To his credit, Bond played along.  He rubbed Darcy’s back and held her close while Jane stood slightly to one side.  Selvig came up beside her and whispered something before pulling her away.

“It’s all right,” Bond cooed around the time the officer came close.  He had put on an American accent that was quite convincing.  “Shh, it’s all right.”

Darcy did not speak German, so the first few questions that came out of the officer’s mouth were complete gibberish until he switched over to English.

“What happened here?” the officer demanded.

Darcy looked at him blearily.  She sniffed and blubbered as she said, with a little slur, “He was shooting at me,” she cried, pointedly looking away from the small crater in the middle of the park, “and I thought I was going to die.”

Bond continued to rub circles into Darcy’s back.  “I saw him running at my girl,” he said.  “I didn’t know what he was going to do to her, so I panicked.”  He frowned down at Darcy.  “I’m so sorry, dear.”

“This is your,” the officer asked, his mouth twisting, “boyfriend?”

Darcy nodded furiously and forced herself to blush.  It was very dark, even with the flashing lights on the German police cars, but it wouldn’t hurt to play it up a little.  She smiled sheepishly up at Bond.  Bond smiled beautifully at her, and the officer cleared his throat.  When Darcy looked back to him, he was noticeably uncomfortable with the obvious public display of affection.

“You’re free to go,” the officer said.  “I’m sorry you had to see this.  Is there an address where we can reach you?”  Darcy shifted uncomfortably, and the officer added, “We may not need to ask you any questions, but in case—”

Bond held Darcy close and rattled off an address.  His German was _terrible_ , and the officer winced when he said the street name.

After a brief platitude, the officer moved away, glancing over his shoulder just once.  Bond led Darcy back towards Jane and Selvig.  They both remained very quiet.

“Darcy, what are you doing?” Jane asked when they were close.  Bond handed her off and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“We need to go,” Darcy said.  She glanced once at Bond and wished she hadn’t rubbed dirt in her eyes because that _hurt_.

“ _What_?” Jane demanded.  “But my prints—”

“Are going to be just fine,” Darcy finished.

Helplessly, Jane said, “I can’t just leave them here!”

Darcy shrugged.  “I couldn’t very well leave him, either, could I?” she demanded.

“You should have,” Bond said from just over her shoulder.

Darcy jumped out of her skin.  “ _Jesus_ ,” she cursed.  Bond laughed at her.  “Get a bell or something.  You’re terrifying.”

“If our story is going to be plausible, we need to leave,” Bond said.  He wrapped an arm around her waist but he was watching the police from across the park.

“Right,” Darcy said.  “I hope you’ve got a ride other than the one you crashed over there.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bond said.  “Come on.”

* * *

Bond drove, despite Darcy’s weak protestations.  She’d seen him drive for all of two seconds and she knew that he could be an absolute menace on the road if he wanted to.  Perhaps because she was so concerned for her life, Bond drove slowly.  Where he got the car in the first place, Darcy didn’t know and didn’t want to know.  She was, however, very sure that it did not belong to him.

Jane and Selvig had crammed themselves in the backseat.

“Darcy, have you lost your mind?” Selvig whispered.  Bond could hear, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone present.  “You just helped this lunatic get away with, with…”

“Getting away?” Darcy finished.  She felt no need to whisper.  “You’re in the car, too, I’ll remind you, and he’s driving me—us—home.”

“My prints,” Jane was murmuring.

“They’ll be fine,” Darcy said.  “Promise.”

Jane hugged Darcy as best as she could with a seat between them.  “I’m glad you’re safe,” Jane said.  A little louder, she said, “Thank you.  You saved Darcy.”

“Her taser set off the charges meant for your gallery opening,” Bond replied.  “Almost killed herself, but I couldn’t get a clear shot, what with the crowd.  You should thank her instead.  She saved everyone in there.”

Darcy’s face was honest-to-god beet-red now, and she looked down at her lap.  Selvig muttered in the back and Jane held Darcy’s hand.

“Sorry about the explosion,” Darcy said.

“You had no way of knowing that he had a bomb that high voltage could set off,” Bond said.

“You could have gotten killed.”

“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

The off-hand remark caught Darcy’s attention.  “What is it you do?” Jane asked for her.

Bond smiled thinly and shifted down.  “I believe we’re here,” he said.  Indeed, they were.  The cheerful lights of Jane’s chosen hotel all but twinkled at them.  “Do you need help?”

“Are you going to be all right?” Darcy asked.  Selvig was already out of the car, and Bond was watching him carefully.  “You took the brunt of the explosion.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Bond said cheerfully.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Darcy,” Jane hissed in warning.

“Fine,” Darcy said.  She unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door.  “You know, you make a pretty good fake boyfriend,” she said to Bond.

“And you a lovely fake girlfriend,” he said.  “The tears were especially convincing.”

Unable to tell if he was mocking her or not, Darcy gave her biggest fake smile and said, “Good night.”

Bond nodded once.  With everyone out of the car, he revved the engine and took off.

“Drinks?” Darcy asked.

Selvig took her elbow on one side while Jane took up the other.  “Drinks,” Jane said.

“Do I get one this time?” Darcy asked as they walked into the hotel.

Selvig laughed.  “This is twice that you’ve managed to get involved with dangerous people and come out unscathed,” he said.  “If I were a betting man, I’d take you to a casino.  Come on, I’ll buy the first round.”

* * *

That night, hotel staff had to help Jane, Selvig, _and_ Darcy up to their suite of rooms because none of them could stand without watching the room spin.  Jane was talking about darkroom photography and what she could do to capture “Darcy’s boyfriend’s” fantastic eyes, Darcy was waxing poetic about her taser and bourbon, and Selvig was recounting stories from his youth while stoutly defending the merits of good German beer.  None of them was paying the least bit of attention to each other nor to anyone else, though they giggled and leaned against each other like the drunks they were.

As such, when they were unceremoniously dumped into their suite, not a single one of them noticed that they had uninvited company.  Darcy and Jane collapsed onto a couch, too lazy to make it to bed, and Selvig laid down on the floor.  Selvig snored, and one of Jane’s feet was in Darcy’s armpit, but Darcy’s brain was full of alcohol and the vague idea that she had done something heroic, so she was soon out like a light.

* * *

Darcy was the first to wake in the morning.  She had a killer headache, and the sunlight streaming through the windows burned like the fires of hell.  She staggered off of the couch, passing through hers and Jane’s actual bedroom to reach the bathroom.  Distantly, she realized that she smelled terrible and that her dress was a lost cause.  In the mirror, she saw enormous bags under her eyes, sallow skin, and mascara all across her cheeks.  She rubbed the makeup off as best as she could, then swallowed a couple of ibuprofen and hunched over the sink.  She felt _terrible_.

As she stumbled back out into the suite, she finally saw: there was a lady sitting primly on one end of Jane’s side of the bed in a yellow skirt and cream-colored blouse.  She also had on the highest high heels Darcy had ever seen on someone not working a pole.

“Good morning, Miss Lewis,” the woman said.  She gestured at a breakfast tray sitting beside her hip.  “Toast?”


	2. A Dark and Stormy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy wakes up to an immaculately put-together Moneypenny, a couple of texts from Q, and the joy of dealing with Drunk and Drunker (otherwise known as Jane and Erik).

Darcy was neither awake nor sober enough to form full words.  She was simultaneously confused, angry, exhausted, hungry, and sore.  As if in understanding, the woman sitting on the bed grimaced.

“Right,” she said.  She was, Darcy belatedly noted, English.  “Let’s get you set up, then.”  She stood, and in those heels, she was over a foot taller than Darcy.  “It’s a shame about that dress, but I’m afraid even the cleaners won’t be able to salvage it.  Were you rather attached to it?”  Darcy shook her head no and immediately winced in pain.  Head movement was bad.

The woman tutted and led Darcy back to the bathroom.  “My name is Eve, by the way,” the woman said.  “Eve Moneypenny.”  She unzipped the back of Darcy’s dress and shucked it off of her with a sort of ruthless efficiency.  Moving back into the bedroom, she grabbed clean underwear, a new bra, and an outfit.  “Can you get dressed by yourself?”  Darcy once again tried to nod, this time for yes.  She immediately became dizzy and had to sit down.  “Good,” Moneypenny said, though she sounded wary.  “Put those on.  I’ll be back in a moment.”

Moneypenny whisked herself away.  Darcy spent a full minute stupidly contemplating how on Earth Moneypenny walked in those heels.

Carefully, Darcy peeled away her old undergarments and put on her new bra and panties.  The pants were a little harder, and the shirt was almost impossible, but she managed anyway.  After a moment’s thought, she took off the shirt, rolled on deodorant, and put the shirt back on.  She marked that a heroic success.  Shoes, however, could not happen.  Moneypenny had brought Darcy’s least favorite, a pair of black ballet flats that she had bought on a whim only to discover that the blisters they rubbed into her feet were murderous, so she forwent the shoes in favor of wandering out of the bathroom barefoot.

Moneypenny reappeared as if on cue.  In one hand, she had a hot glass of something that looked and smelled like she ladled it out of the River Styx.

“Drink,” Moneypenny ordered.  Darcy made a face and folded her arms.  Moneypenny’s resultant expression could have bored holes in rock.

Darcy took the glass, and, after taking a deep, bracing breath, downed it in one go.  She could not describe the taste of what she imbibed, but it was potent stuff.  Her first instinct was to gag, but whatever it was burned like alcohol and seemed to bubble in her throat.  It was at once spicy and sweet, with the consistency of raw egg whites.  In short, it tasted absolutely horrendous.

“What did you _do?_ ” Darcy cried, coughing as she handed the glass back to Moneypenny.  She paused, then looked up at Moneypenny.  “I can talk.”

“Then you can eat,” Moneypenny said.  She pointed at the tray still sitting on the bed.

“Who are you?” Darcy asked, her hands on her hips.  “Some sort of hangover fairy?  Do you regularly break into hotel rooms to make them swallow…that?”

Moneypenny smiled thinly.  “No,” she said.  “Eat.  We’ll talk when you’re finished.”  Her tone brooked no discussion, but it was just starting to sink in that Moneypenny was an intruder and not the one who should be in control of the conversation, so Darcy pressed on.

“What about Jane and Erik?” Darcy asked.  “The people in the other room.”

“Still sleeping,” Moneypenny said.  “From what I gather, you’re something of a lightweight and didn’t drink nearly as much as they did.  They’ll be out another couple of hours.”

Moneypenny took up her spot at the bottom of the bed again.  Darcy moved to recline against the pillows, taking the tray with her.  She eyed the admittedly beautiful tray of food.  “How do I know you haven’t poisoned me?”

“I helped you get dressed and get over your hangover,” Moneypenny said.  “If I were going to kill you, I would have done it last night when you came in.”

Darcy had already started eating.  “You’ve been here since last night?” she asked around a mouthful of muffin.

Moneypenny sighed.  “ _Eat_.  Preferably with your mouth closed.  We’ll talk after.”

Now that she’d had a taste of breakfast, Darcy had no trouble complying.  There were eggs on ham and toast and a muffin that tasted like buttery happiness and a glass of orange juice.  Darcy had no problem inhaling all of it in minutes.

“I take it you didn’t eat last night?” Moneypenny asked, moving the empty tray to one side.

Darcy resisted the urge to burp.  It felt wrong, given the prim lady sitting directly in front of her.  “That’s some serious sass considering you broke into our—Jane, Erik and I—our hotel room.”

Moneypenny sighed.  The expression on her face spoke of murder.  “Bond and I are colleagues,” she said.  “I’m aware of the events of this past evening.”  Moneypenny frowned.  “You’re awfully calm about it.”

Darcy thought about it for a moment.  “Yeah, I guess so.  Maybe because I almost got blown up last night.  Maybe it’s because you’re English.  You work with Bond, and he’s government, right?  So it’s all good, I guess.”  Darcy put up her hands.  “Am I rambling again?  I tend to do that.”

A dark look came over Moneypenny’s face at the mention of people being blown up.  “A bit.  With regards to the bombing, that’s information that I’m going to have to ask you not to share with anyone.”

“What?”

“We’ve been cleaning up the scene,” Moneypenny said indifferently.  “It’s rather important that you not mention it to anyone.”

Darcy frowned.  “So wait a minute.  _I_ nearly get blown to smithereens and _you_ are trying to tell me what to do?  You people are nuts.”

“Who, precisely, do you think I am?” Moneypenny asked.

“I don’t know.  James Bond’s secretary?  A government administrator?  I have no idea, but you’re probably a badass.  Normal people don’t walk around in those kind of shoes.  See, Bond totally reads as spy, what with the earpiece and the explosions and stuff.  Hey, wait, are you a spy, too?”  Moneypenny stared at Darcy blankly.  Darcy just shrugged.  “Don’t get mad, but it’s kind of obvious.  You were there when he raided my apartment the first time looking for that stupid picture.  I remember you outside with a bald guy.”

Moneypenny gave a resigned sigh.  “Once again, we’re willing to compensate you and your employer handsomely for the trouble,” she said, “so long as you both remain quiet.”

Darcy leaned against the headboard.  “Is that why you’re here?” Darcy asked.  “Compensation?”

Moneypenny shook her head and stood.  “No,” she said.  “Bond wanted me to make sure that you and your friends didn’t turn up dead in your room.”

“Why would we be dead?” Darcy asked.

Moneypenny looked at Darcy as if she were a particularly troublesome child who had just asked the dumbest question she had ever heard.  “We’ll be in touch,” she said.  “I’ve sent up two more trays, and the two glasses on the sideboard are what I gave you earlier.  They’re most effective hot, so if you can reheat them, all the better.  You have them drink up and they’ll be right as rain.”

“Wait,” Darcy called, but Moneypenny was already at the door and on her way down the hall.  Darcy looked at her as she disappeared around a corner, likely headed for the elevators.

Darcy let the hotel room door close and rested her head against it.  Behind her, Selvig drooled into the carpet and Jane lay sprawled across the couch.  Darcy sighed and hit her head lightly against the door.

There came a light beeping noise that Darcy recognized as her phone.  She located her purse—on the sideboard by the two glasses of whatever Moneypenny had concocted as a cure for the hangover.  Darcy frowned as she picked up the bag.  She was very sure that she hadn’t placed it there.  It had been discarded last night somewhere between the door and the couch.

Tentatively, Darcy looked inside.  All of her belongings were still in order, but— There was a sticky note attached to her taser, and her phone had two new messages.  Darcy opted to check her phone before she found out what, exactly, Moneypenny had done while they were all sleeping.

The messages were from a number Darcy hadn’t seen in a long time.  She smiled to herself as she read: _Eve is like that sometimes.  Don’t let her bother you_.  Then: _Are you all right?_

Darcy spoke as she texted: “It’s Q, right?  Hello.  All fine here.”

 _Glad to see you remember me_ , Q wrote back.  _Give us a second._

Darcy frowned, only to see her phone buzz at her.  Q appeared to be calling her.

All instincts screamed not to answer.  She remembered seeing him at the gallery—the man with a mop of black hair and very attractive features—and then his voice through her computer later that day.  Still, figuring she couldn’t make any worse decisions than she already had, Darcy went to the bedroom and answered.

“Hello?” she asked.

“Miss Lewis,” Q said.

“You are terrifying,” Darcy said.  “Do I want to know how you know my name?  Or how you got my phone number and access to my laptop however long ago?”

Q’s responded, “No, you don’t.  However, I object to the moniker of ‘terrifying’.  So says the woman who just saved one of England’s most dangerous men and and a gallery full of very important people armed with a taser and some dirt.  You, Miss Lewis, are terrifying.”

Darcy frowned.  “I was really hoping he’d left the part about the dirt out.  What are you, his handler or something?  Who _are_ you people?”

Q laughed.  It was tinny over the connection, but it had a lovely ring to it.  He proceeded to ignore both of her questions.  “Well, he couldn’t very well leave that out without us all suspecting that _he’d_ been the one to make you cry,” Q said.  “He does that to people.”

“Reduce them to tears?” Darcy asked.  She pictured Bond in her mind, as if she needed to picture another attractive person.  “I can see that.”

Abruptly, Q said, “You know I wasn’t joking when I said he was a womanizer,” he said.

“Are you warning me off of your friend?” Darcy asked. “You know I blew up a bomb in his face, right?”

“You didn’t know he had a bomb,” Q said, as if that particular detail meant nothing.  Darcy wondered, not for the first time, exactly what she was dealing with.  “But, and do forgive me for saying this, you’re his type.”

Darcy laughed.  “I sincerely doubt it.”

“No, really,” Q said, but Darcy found it too funny to listen.

“You crack me up, Q,” Darcy said.  “You’re very sweet, but I’m in no danger of being swept off my feet by James Bond.”

Q sighed over the phone.  “Have it your way.  I’m just trying to look out for your best interests.”

“A man I’ve never met is trying to help me make better life decisions,” Darcy said.  “You can understand if I find that totally weird.  Actually, this is all totally weird.  I’m going to need counseling for, like, the rest of my life.”

“Of course,” Q said.  “Of course.”  There was an awkward pause, and Q said, “Well, I’m glad you’re all right.  Rest assured, no one with any variety of explosives will trouble you in the future.”

Darcy bit her lip and said, “Moneypenny—I assume she works with you because she works with Bond and so do you, right?—said that she stayed to make sure we weren’t found dead in our hotel.”

“Yes,” Q said.  “Bond was concerned that the associates of the man you accidentally sent to oblivion would come looking for you.

“Oh,” Darcy said.  She sat down on the bed.  Breakfast wasn’t sitting so well anymore.

“Don’t worry,” Q said hurriedly.  “No one will get close.”

“Really,” Darcy said blandly.

“Really,” Q confirmed, oblivious or otherwise immune to her tone of voice.  “Bond wouldn’t allow it.  He likes you too much.”

“Jesus, he is a spy,” Darcy sighed.  “I’ve made bad life choices, haven’t I?”

“Well, you won’t take my advice,” Q said primly.  Darcy had to laugh.

“So, the next time someone shoots at me I’m supposed to, what, call you and ask what to do?”

“Hmm,” Q said. “It’s not a bad idea, actually.  It’s rather what I do for a living, getting people out of tight spots.  Granted, they have more training than you do, but you’re already ahead of most of them, now that you’ve got one kill under your belt—”

“Now, hold on,” Darcy said.  Her stomach had turned again.  Last night, in the dark and clouded with adrenaline, Darcy hadn’t given too much thought to what she’d done.  Now, sober and alone, the thought that she’d killed someone, even inadvertently, was more than merely unpleasant.

“I’m sorry,” Q said.  She wasn’t sure he actually meant it.  “I’m rather used to dealing with people who have this sort of thing happen all the time.”

“That’s hardly reassuring,” Darcy said.  She was having a hard time breathing.

“Are you all right?” Q asked, concerned.

“Fine,” Darcy answered.

After a moment, Q said, “I want you to count to seven as you breathe in.  Can you do that for me?”

“What, out loud?” Darcy asked.

“No.  In your mind.  Count to seven as you breathe in, and then seven again as you breathe out.  Here, I’ll count with you.”

And he did.  Seven counts in, seven counts out.  In, out, in, out.  Darcy, now hyperaware of her breath, was both fascinated and disgusted by her awareness.  She never thought about breathing.  She didn’t know that you really could think about it, _control_ it, so precisely.

“There,” Q said.  “How are you now?”

“Better, I think,” Darcy said.  “You know, for a creeper who has some pretty creepy friends, you’re not that bad.”

Q chuckled.  “I’d rather hope not.”

“Thanks for checking in,” Darcy said.  She meant it.

“You are most welcome, Miss Lewis.”  Q sighed.  “I’m afraid I must be off.”

“Yeah, you and me both.  I get to wake up Drunk and Drunker,” Darcy grumbled.

“Did Moneypenny tell you how to make her cure?” Q asked.

“What, for hangovers?” Darcy asked.  “No.  But she left two of them behind.”

“Drat,” Q said.  “I was hoping she’d just told you how to do it.”

“Darcy asked, “Why?”

Q laughed a little.  “Because she won’t tell a soul around here.  You know she sells them?”

“I believe that,” Darcy said.  “If I figure out what’s in them, I’ll let you know.”

“Please do,” Q said.  “I’ll be more than happy to return the favor.  Have a lovely day, Miss Lewis.”

“Right back at you, Q.”

* * *

Jane and Selvig took another hour to come around.  Darcy did for them what Moneypenny did for her: a clean pair of clothes, a stiff drink of unknown origins (reheated by a very confused waitress in the kitchen of the hotel restaurant), and breakfast.  Selvig initially objected to pants in much the same way Darcy rejected her shoes.  That idea was nixed immediately because Darcy had seen a lot in the time she had been with Jane, and she had no desire to see more.

“Someone else was here,” was the first thing Jane said once she was sober and fed.

“What?” Darcy asked.  It was mostly for show.  She _knew_ someone had been there; that someone was Eve Moneypenny, and Darcy still wasn’t quite sure she understood all of what transpired.  “What’s wrong?”

“It’s too clean,” Jane said, gesturing around the room.

Jane was right.  _Someone_ —Moneypenny—had cleaned up while they slept.

“Right, so,” Darcy started.  She did her best to explain the oddity that was Moneypenny, though she left off her discussion with Q.  That was a conversation meant for her and her alone.

“She was in here _the whole time?_ ” Jane exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Darcy said.  She was fidgeting with her sweater.  Moneypenny might have picked out her least favorite pair of shoes, but she’d grabbed Darcy’s favorite sweater, so it all evened out in the end.

“Who is she?” Selvig demanded.  “Is everything still here?”

While Selvig checked the valuables, Jane scrutinized Darcy.  “What did she say?” Jane asked.

“She said she was sent to make sure we weren’t found dead in this room later on,” Darcy said.

“What, from drinking?” Jane asked.  “Also, that’s the last time we let you have alcohol.”

“I’m not the one who was singing about some guy’s eyes,” Darcy pointed out.  She did not correct Jane’s assumption about how they would all die.

Jane’s face flushed.  “You were writing poetry to your taser.”

“It’s a great taser,” Darcy argued.  She remembered the sticky note.  She had to remember to check it out, but now wasn’t the time.

“Be serious,” Jane was saying.

“Am I ever not serious?” Darcy asked, a smile playing across her face.  Jane smiled, too, but the expression faded as soon as it appeared.

“She was worried that whoever tried to blow up my gallery would come looking for us, wasn’t she?” Jane asked quietly.

Darcy had been hoping that Jane would miss that conclusion.  Even so, she bit her bottom lip and nodded slowly.  “I think so,” she said.  “When I asked, she looked at me like I was an idiot, so I guess that’s the explanation.”

Jane shut her eyes and took a deep breath.  “This,” she said slowly, “is fine.”

Darcy blinked.  “What.”

“This is fine,” Jane repeated.  “It’s not true art unless they’re trying to kill you.”  Her eyes snapped open.  “Darcy, I think this means I’m famous.  Or at least note-worthy.  Do you think we’ll be written up?”

“Hold on,” Darcy said, but Jane had already stood up.

“I must be doing something right,” she was saying.  “I mean, a _bomb?_   Utter destruction in the face of the beauty of art!”

“ _Jane_ ,” Darcy said.  “Earth to Jane, do you read me?”

Jane snapped once.  “I need to get my prints.”  She grabbed at Darcy’s hand and pulled.

“Whoa, wait just a second,” Darcy said, but Jane was already dragging her to the door.

“Where are you going?” Selvig asked, appearing from his adjoining room.

Jane gave him an enormous smile.  “To get my prints!”

* * *

The area around the Matthias Beckh gallery and the Lustgarten was cordoned off, but after a couple of quick explanations to officers who thankfully either did not know or did not recognize Darcy from the night before, they were allowed inside.

All of Jane’s prints were accounted for.  Only one had been so much as shaken: it hung off-kilter as opposed to level.  Jane righted it with a little huff.

“Did you sell any last night?” Darcy asked.

“Yes,” Jane replied.  “Three.”

“Which ones?”

Jane led Darcy into the next room.  “This one sold second,” she said.  It was a very Turner-esque picture, all things considered.  One of the few prints that wasn’t black and white, it depicted a ship besieged by a terrible storm leaving harbor on the western coast of France.  Darcy remembered helping Jane take the picture.  She had held Jane on her shoulders in the wind and the rain so that they could capture the moment.  The sky had been a remarkable shade of green, and everything had smelled distinctively of ozone.  To Darcy, whose mother had been born and bred in the American Midwest, the weather meant tornadoes.  The winds had certainly felt like a funnel had touched down somewhere.  They were alone out there: Selvig had been in Spain meeting with a dealer.  Jane and Darcy had spent their time together in much the same manner as they took the photograph: supporting one another across unforgiving terrain and weather.

After that shot, in the ramshackle hotel they’d managed to finagle on short notice, Jane and Darcy had danced like madmen, causing the tenant on the floor below to bang on the ceiling with something.  Jane and Darcy had just laughed.  They knew that they’d witnessed something spectacular.  If it turned out good on film, it would be all the better.

“It’s a shame,” Jane said, breaking the silence in the gallery.  Darcy pulled herself out of the picture to look at her friend.  Jane ran a hand over the frame.

“It’s a beautiful picture,” Darcy said.  “I’m sorry you have to see it go so soon.”

“I still have the film, of course,” Jane said, clearly trying to perk herself up.  “I can make another print that I don’t have to sell.”

Darcy smiled at her.  “Yes,” she said.  “You can.”

Jane led her into the next room over, where the other two sold pictures hung.  They were lesser pieces in Darcy’s book.  Both shots of architecture, they felt cold and still.  That was, of course, the point, but neither Darcy nor Jane were particularly fond of them and so neither was inclined to linger.

Jane gravitated back to her storm-ridden seascape.  Darcy set her bag down on the floor, and, after considering how gross the floor could be, sat down next to it.  A few minutes later, Jane joined her.  She sat for a moment, then swung herself back to lay on the floor.  Tentatively—Darcy still wasn’t convinced that the floor wasn’t gross—Darcy did the same.  She stared at the ceiling, an enormous white expanse of nothingness, and as she did so, Jane began to speak.

“As a kid, this was my dream,” Jane said.  “I wanted to go places.  See things.  I wanted to make art and have it mean something.”  Darcy relaxed on the floor and listened.  She knew that for all that Jane was talking to her, she didn’t mean for Darcy to interject.  Jane was delivering her soliloquy, and Darcy was her audience.  “I read about important artists.  I studied and I recreated and I emulated.  People whose work was controversial and meaningful, or influential.  Like, Picasso and _Guernica_.  Munch’s _Scream_.  Dali’s _The Persistence of Memory_.  I wanted to create something—something surreal and powerful.  Turner was a big inspiration.  My first studio instructor hated Turner.”  Jane laughed to herself.  “When I picked him as inspiration for my final project, I thought he was going to kick me out of the class.  That’s when I was doing painting rather than photography.  I just wanted to make something beautiful.”

Silence stretched between Darcy and Jane.  They breathed in tandem, inhaling as the other exhaled.  Darcy thought about the cycle of air.  She wondered about the relative concentration of oxygen versus other gases on the floor as opposed to around five feet higher.  She thought about what it meant to be beautiful, what it meant to be art.

“I’m still trying,” Jane said.  She spoke in a low voice.  Darcy thought she wasn’t meant to hear.

“You’re succeeding,” Darcy said sincerely.  “Look around.  This is beautiful.”

Jane didn’t respond directly.  “You know, I didn’t really think that that guy wanted to destroy my prints,” she said softly.  “I just… It’s easier to think about destroying things than people.”  Darcy remained quiet.  Outside, there was a crater in the middle of an otherwise lovely park where somebody used to be.  Someone who was bad, maybe; someone who meant to do harm.  But that someone had been a someone.  “Who do you think the bomb was meant for?”

Darcy shivered against the floor.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “There were a lot of people here last night.”

“Did James say anything?”

“What?”

“James Bond.”  Jane put on a deep voice, “I’m Bond, James Bond.”

Darcy snorted once and giggled.  Jane laughed, too.  “That was pretty good,” Darcy said, “but no, he didn’t say anything.”

Jane made a soft sound and sat up.  She stood and then pulled Darcy up off of the floor.  Darcy brushed herself off and looked around.

“It was a great show, Jane,” she said.

“I’m glad you came,” Jane replied.

Darcy punched Jane lightly in the arm.  “What, so I could save all of you?  Yeah, you’re welcome.”

Jane slung an arm over Darcy’s shoulders.  “Come on, Miss Hero.  Let’s get something to eat.”

“We just ate breakfast!”

They walked to the door.  “You’re the one who’s always reminding me to eat,” Jane said.  “It’s time to repay the favor.  Schnitzel?”

Darcy laughed as they descended the few stairs and slid under the police tape to walk to the car.  “Are we in Germany?” Darcy asked.

“Let’s go, then,” Jane said.  “You drive, though.”

“You’ve got those shaky hands,” Darcy said.  Something moved on her peripheral vision, and she turned to take a look.  There were people driving and walking past the park, but nothing unusual.  With a frown, Darcy got into the car.

“What’s wrong?” Jane asked.

“Nothing,” Darcy said, still watching the street.  “Thought I saw something.”

Jane hesitated, then said, “You’re getting paranoid.  One bomb and it’s like the world’s after you.”

“Right,” Darcy said, then “right.  Okay, boss lady, do you have directions or are we driving blind again?”

Jane fished her phone out of her pocket.  “Nope, I’ve got a plan.  Let’s get turned around and head south.  Selvig wouldn’t shut up about this place.”

“That just means they’ve got good beer,” Darcy said, pulling out into traffic.

“Maybe,” Jane said, distracted with getting directions, “Actually, that’s a good point.  I’ve got a better idea.  Head north instead.”

Darcy swung a while U-turn in the middle of the road, ignoring the honks of angry drivers.  “Let’s go, then.”


End file.
